Tyler’s idol was that movie director, Cameron Crowe, who had toured with Led Zeppelin when he was only fifteen. Tyler refused to listen to CDs, insisting that real vinyl records were the only way to go. Blair worried her brother was turning into a loser. Serena steeled herself and pulled up a chair in the space next to Blair. “Blair, I’m sorry I’ve been such a complete asshole,” she said, removing her linen napkin from its silver ring and spreading it out on her lap. “Your parents splitting up must have totally sucked.” Blair shrugged and grabbed a fresh sourdough roll from a basket on the table. She tore the roll in half and stuffed one half into her mouth. The other guests were still making their way toward the table and figuring out where to sit. Blair knew it was rude to eat before everyone was seated, but if her mouth was full, she couldn’t talk, and she really didn’t feel like talking. “I wish I’d been here,” Serena said, watching Blair smear the other half of her roll with a thick slab of French butter. “But I had a crazy year. I have the most insane stories to tell you.” Blair nodded and chewed her roll slowly, like a cow chewing its cud. Serena waited for Blair to ask her what kind of stories, but Blair didn’t say anything, she just kept on chewing. She didn’t want to hear about all the fabulous things Serena had done while she was away and Blair had been stuck at home, watching her parents fight over antique chairs that nobody sat on, teacups nobody used, and ugly, expensive paintings. Serena had wanted to tell Blair about Charles, the only Rastafarian at Hanover Academy, who’d asked her to elope with him to Jamaica. About Nicholas, the French college guy who never wore underwear and who’d chased her train in a tiny Fiat all the way from Paris to Milan. About smoking hash in Amsterdam and sleeping in a park with a group of drunk prostitutes because she forgot where she was staying. She wanted to tell Blair how much it sucked to find out that Hanover Academy wouldn’t take her back senior year simply because she’d blown off the first few weeks of school. She wanted to tell Blair how scared she was to go back to Constance tomorrow because she hadn’t exactly been studying very hard in the last year and she felt so completely out of touch. But Blair wasn’t interested. She grabbed another roll and took a big bite. “Wine, miss?” Esther said, standing at Serena’s left with the bottle. “Yes, thank you,” Serena said. She watched the C.te du Rhone spill into her glass and thought of the Red Sea once more. Maybe Blair does know, she thought. Was that what this was all about? Was that why she was acting so weird? Serena glanced at Nate, four chairs down on the right, but he was deep in conversation with her father. Talking about boats no doubt. “So, you and Nate are still totally together?” Serena said, taking a risk. “I bet you guys wind up married.” Blair gulped her wine, her little ruby ring rattling against the glass. She reached for the butter, slapping a great big wad on her roll. “Hello? Blair?” Serena said, nudging her friend’s arm. “Are you okay?” “Yeah,” Blair slurred. It was less an answer to Serena’s question than a vague, general statement made to fill a blank space while she was tending to her roll. “I’m fine.” Esther brought out the duck and the acorn squash soufflé and the wilted chard and the lingonberry sauce, and the table was filled with the sound of clanking plates and silver and murmurs of “delicious.” Blair heaped her plate high with food and attacked it as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. She didn’t care if she made herself sick, as long as she didn’t have to talk to Serena. “Whoa,” Serena said, watching Blair stuff her face. “You must be hungry.” Blair nodded and shoveled a forkful of chard into her mouth. She washed it down with a gulp of wine. “I’m starving,” she said. “So, Serena,” Cyrus Rose called down from the head of the table. “Tell me about France. Your mother says you were in the South of France this summer. Is it true the French girls don’t wear tops on the beach?” “Yes, it’s true,” Serena said. She raised one eyebrow playfully. “But it’s not just the French girls. I never wore a top down there, either. How else could I get a decent tan?” Blair gagged on an enormous bite of soufflé and spat it into her wine. It floated on the surface of the crimson liquid like a soggy dumpling until Esther whisked it away and brought her a clean glass. No one noticed. Serena had ............